


Secrets Shared

by Beth H (bethbethbeth)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Feelstide 2013, M/M, Only the mention of Christmas, Past Relationships Mentioned - Freeform, Perches but no Nests, Some Fluff, Some Pheels, The Cellist is a Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethbethbeth/pseuds/Beth%20H
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely based on Feelstide 2013 prompt #111: "The Cellist in Portland is actually Phil's daughter. Phil takes Clint to meet her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets Shared

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Laura Kaye for a sterling beta. Any inconsistencies remaining in the story are entirely my responsibility. 
> 
> Regarding the prompt: Somehow Coulson's daughter has ended up taking a back seat to Coulson's mom, Clint has taken himself to Portland, and Christmas barely gets a mention. However, this story is fluffy enough to count as a holiday fic!
> 
> ETA: Just the slightest hint of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. compliance.

It was Clint's secret.

Okay, technically it was Phil Coulson's secret - _had_ been Phil Coulson's secret - but now it was Clint's, and he hadn't decided whether telling anybody, even Natasha, would be a betrayal of Coulson's trust.

The truth, of course, is that Coulson had probably never planned to share his secret with Clint - maybe never would have if it hadn't been for one day in late June, three years earlier, when the two men had planned to grab a quick dinner before heading back to HQ for a late-night strategy session, but then Coulson got stuck in a meeting with R&D that seemed likely to drag on for at least another hour. Clint decided to take advantage of the wait time by breaking into Coulson's office and looking through his Captain America trading cards to see if there were any gaps in the collection that maybe Clint could fill for Coulson's birthday. 

There weren't any gaps - no real surprise there - but there were a couple of cards near the back of the binder that were in kind of shitty condition, and maybe Clint could replace them with better copies (because honestly, finding something to give to Coulson which wasn't the sort of mean-funny thing that he could get away with for Sitwell, but also didn't reek of _feelings_ \- at least not the kind of feelings Clint hadn't said anything about yet and probably never would - was damned hard).

Anyway.

There on the bottom row of the second-to-last nine-pocket card protector was a ragged-edged card that looked like it needed some serious updating. When Clint took another look at the red, white, and blue clad figure, though, he realized it wasn't part of any Captain America card set, unless Cap had taken to wearing hot pants in the summer months.

"Wonder Woman? Coulson must be branching out."

Clint flipped the page over to see if there was anything printed on the back, when he saw - wedged behind the trading card - the back of a small photograph, the size of those school photos that the Bartons never had enough money to buy when Clint and Barney were little kids. He checked his watch to make sure there'd still be enough time to get a little totally necessary research ( _snooping_ ) done before Coulson got back from his meeting, then slid the photo out from the protective sleeve.

The picture was of a small girl, maybe eight or nine years old, with blonde hair cut short and flipped up at the ends. She was wearing a pair of blue jeans, folded up at the ankles, and a white shirt with short puffy sleeves - and she was playing a cello.

"You must be wondering what she's playing," said somebody who sounded a whole lot like Coulson, except it couldn't be Coulson, since he wasn't supposed to be back yet, dammit.

"Um...yeah?" Clint answered, although of course he hadn't been wondering anything of the sort (something that would have surprised precisely nobody, especially Coulson). He turned around, really slowly, hoping by the time he'd turned all the way around, he'd find out that he'd just been _imagining_ Coulson's voice and wouldn't have to explain what the hell he was doing pawing through his handler's personal stuff. 

"It's the Allegro Appassionato by Camille Saint-Saëns. Very popular with middle-school cellists, apparently."

Clint nodded, like he understood any of that - or knew why Coulson was sitting there, perched on the edge of his desk, calmly talking about kid-friendly music instead of writing Clint up for a violation of security regs.

What he _did_ know is that his mouth was dry and his face felt hot and this was really _not_ how he'd meant for the evening to go and if he had any sense, he'd just keep his mouth shut.

Keeping his mouth shut? Yeah, that was never going to happen.

"So who's the kid?" Clint asked without thinking, and if he could've swallowed his tongue right then, he would have, but he wasn't that lucky, and his mouth got dryer and his face felt hotter and he was pretty sure that being written up for a violation was the _least_ humiliating thing that was about to happen to him.

Except that Coulson just paused for a moment before saying, "She's my daughter."

***

Three years later and Clint still wasn't sure why Coulson had rewarded his snooping by sharing a secret that almost nobody else at S.H.I.E.L.D. knew - not that most of them would even have believed it if somebody told them that Coulson had a kid.

It wasn't as if people thought he was a robot or anything, but when cafeteria conversation turned to gossip about co-workers (something more common than you'd think in a place that had listening devices embedded every two feet), the 'smart money' was on Agent Coulson being too married to his job to have ever let the thought of a living, breathing sexual partner cross his mind.

It wasn't true, of course. Coulson'd had involvements of one sort or another with three women on foreign ops before Clint had joined S.H.I.E.L.D. and then he'd had some kind of covert relationship with one guy who worked in the White House a year or two after Clint joined up (Coulson never actually told Clint about the _guy_ , but Clint had his ways - _Natasha_ \- of finding things out).

And there had been Maureen. 

A violinist, transplanted from Vancouver to Seattle, Maureen had met Coulson when he'd been transferred temporarily to the West Coast office, and after four months of dating off and on, Maureen became pregnant. The pregnancy was an accident ("Stop raising your eyebrows, Barton; you know that no protection is 100% effective."), but not entirely unwelcome - at least on Coulson's part - and even though his growing obligations to S.H.I.E.L.D. meant he couldn't spend as much time with his daughter as he would have liked, things _seemed_ to be working out, especially as Maureen had said she was willing to be their daughter's primary caregiver until Molly completed middle school. This was all well and good, but then Maureen was made first chair at the philharmonic and her rehearsal and performance schedule started to interfere with her ability to look after Molly.

With both Maureen and Coulson away so often, the bulk of the parenting responsibilities was taken over by Coulson's mother, Molly's only other close relative and - if the truth be known - much better suited to child-rearing than either Maureen or Coulson were at this point in their lives.

***

"Maureen died of a heart attack," Coulson said out of the blue late one night when the two men were driving through the New Mexico desert for the second time in just over a year. "It was completely unexpected, no history of heart disease in her family, nothing flagged in her yearly physicals. One minute she was there, and the next...she wasn't."

"Yeah," Clint said quietly from the passenger seat, trying hard not to freak out about how quickly the conversation had veered away from the much safer topics of mission parameters and alien energy signatures. "And so Molly just stayed with your mom?"

"Mostly, yeah." Coulson took a deep breath and exhaled quickly. "I suppose I've never really been much of a dad. I've taken care of Molly financially, of course, and we talk a lot, but...I don't know. I love her, but...you understand the demands of the job. It was always so easy to tell myself that she was better off with my mother, especially before Molly started school, and now that she's eleven...I think I might have missed my chance."

Clint could hardly imagine a world in which Coulson wasn't fucking great at taking care of people.

They drove the next few miles in silence, until finally Coulson said "Sorry."

"Sorry?" Clint asked. "Sorry for what?"

"Making you listen to all this. For crossing a line."

Clint snorted. "Yeah, we've worked together for ten years, I've known about Molly for the past three, and...when the hell did you ever get the idea that I gave a rat's ass about crossing lines?" He took a drink of water, then muttered, "We could do with a little _more_ fucking line crossing if you ask me."

Coulson drove for another mile or two without saying a word, then without warning he pulled over to the side of the road and put the car into park. "Barton...Clint, you do know you said that out loud, right?"

"Yeah," Clint said, looking down at his knuckles. "I just figured...maybe it was time, you know?"

"Maybe it is."

"Really?" said Clint, looking up and staring at Coulson.

"Maybe...maybe when Selvig finishes this Tesseract business," Coulson said, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain, "I was thinking of going up to Portland to see my mother and Molly for a few days. I don't suppose you'd be interested in going with me?"

Inside - way deep inside where Coulson couldn't see - Clint was shouting " _Are you fucking kidding me? Of course I want to!_ " On the outside, though, he just smiled - a real smile that earned Clint an actual smile in exchange from Coulson - and said "I'd like that."

***

If the worst thing that had happened after that night was that the proposed trip to Portland never took place, Clint would have been so fucking grateful, but of course that wasn't the worst thing that happened.

The worst thing - worse than being mind fucked by an alien god - was that Coulson died.

***

Clint's been holding his position for three hours now. 

He's wearing a charcoal grey pair of jeans and a dark green hoodie, and he's hoping like hell that nobody looks up because he's pretty sure you wouldn't need the eyesight of a hawk to spot him in the branches of the American elm he was forced to choose for his perch.

If either of the residents of the house - a really _nice_ old house with light grey wood siding, white trim, slate roof, and an old fashioned wrap-around porch - had been on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Watch List, yeah, Clint would have been way more careful about finding himself a place where he could keep out of sight, but this is no mission - not an official one anyway - and as far as he can tell, the only two people currently living in this particular house are an eleven year old girl (Coulson's _daughter_ ) and an older woman (Coulson's _mom_ ).

It's the fourth day Clint's kept watch over the house.

It's been four _weeks_ since Clint first got the idea that he needed to head out west and do whatever it is he's doing here.

He already knows the morning routine. In ten minutes or so, the door will open, and two people will step out onto the porch. Mrs. Coulson will hand Molly her lunch (reminding her she'd forgotten it, which she's had to do every day this week) before kissing her on the forehead. Then Molly will sling her Wonder Woman backpack over her shoulders, drag her cello case down the front steps, and set off for the corner of the block past the Callahans, the Johnsons, and the Chens to wait for the school bus. 

When the bus leaves, Mrs. Coulson will sigh, shake her head, and walk back inside the house.

And Clint will...no, Clint has _no_ clue what he'll do.

Somewhere at the back of his mind was the thought that if he couldn't save Coulson - and he _couldn't_ , dammit - then the very least he can do is watch over Coulson's family just in case they need something.

What they might need from him isn't particularly clear. 

He can't imagine them being the targets of any of Coulson's old enemies (unlikely since almost none of Coulson's old _friends_ even know of their existence), and Clint's gathered enough intel (i.e., got Stark's A.I. to help him check some things out) to know for certain that Mrs. Coulson and Molly aren't hurting for money. Mrs. Coulson owns her home outright and some complicated benefits package from the agency seems to have taken care of the rest (Clint's never had anybody to give benefits _to_ , so he's never paid much attention to the financial planning workshops that are offered regular as clockwork at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ).

Mrs. Coulson and Molly aren't exactly _happy_ , of course, and that's something Clint gets. And no, it's not something he can fix, but he's willing to watch over them as long as it takes, just in case.

***

On the ninth day of his self-imposed security detail - the second drizzly Sunday he's going to be spending up a tree in Portland, Oregon - Clint shows up a few hours later than his usual time and realizes immediately that something is wrong.

Or maybe nothing's _wrong_ exactly, but something happened while he was away, and Clint doesn't have the faintest idea what it could be. 

There are tire tracks in the drive that don't belong to Mrs. Coulson's car and the footprints of at least two different adult men on the edge of the lawn that weren't there when he left the night before. The empty terracotta planter to the right of the front door has been moved around the corner of the porch, and when Clint takes a look inside the picture window (which he's tried hard _not_ to do so far because...god, it's Coulson's family's home), he can see that the big Persian carpet's been rolled up and pushed against one of the living room walls.

Clint's so busy trying to figure out what might have happened that he somehow never notices when Molly comes out the side door and walks to the base of the elm tree.

"Mr. Barton," she calls up to him, sounding way more cheerful than she's sounded since he got there.

Clint almost falls off his perch.

"I'm Molly, and Grandma says it's about to start raining again and that you should come in and warm up." Molly _sounds_ like every kid everywhere who's been sent to deliver a message to a strange grown-up, but the expression on her face - half amused, half exasperated - looks exactly like her dad used to look when Clint did something...when Clint did just about anything.

"She's making minestrone soup," Molly says enticingly, almost as if she knows it's his favorite, then turns around and half runs, half skips back to the house.

***

Clint had spent a lot of time imagining what it might have been like to meet Coulson's mom and daughter over the past three years and five weeks, but he hadn't ever imagined he'd be standing in the entrance to Mrs. Coulson's kitchen, dripping water on her freshly scrubbed linoleum and wearing the same grubby clothes he'd worn seven out of the past nine days.

"Come on now, step inside," Mrs. Coulson said, tugging gently at Clint's waterlogged sleeve. "I'm Sara, and...Molly? Did you get that blanket for Clint like I asked you to do? Oh good." Mrs. Coulson took a red and purple tartan blanket from her granddaughter's hands and wrapped it around Clint's shoulders. "Sorry...do you _mind_ if we call you Clint?"

How could he mind when he didn't have the faintest idea how she even knew his name? His confusion must have shown on his face, because Sara Coulson smiled and steered him toward one of the kitchen chairs. "Phil speaks of you quite often," she said.

"He...did?" Clint said, honestly shocked that Coulson had ever mentioned him to anybody in his real life.

"He _does_ ," she corrected gently, then sat down beside him at the kitchen table and searched his face for...something. 

"Clint," she said finally. "Did they not tell you? Phil's alive."

Forty days spent grieving for Coulson, and somehow it's hearing that he's alive that finally brings tears to his eyes. Taking Clint's hand in hers, Mrs. Coulson said quietly, "It's only been a few days since Nick let me know that Phil was finally out of the woods, but...you really didn't know he'd survived that alien's attack, did you?"

Clint took a deep breath, then shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

"If it's any consolation, which of course it won't be," she said, "I'm fairly certain none of your friends at S.H.I.E.L.D. know yet either, not even your...partner, do you call her?"

"Natasha?" Clint frowned. "She's not my...I mean she usually _is_ my partner, but not my partner partner. She's...we work together? We're friends?"

"You're not romantically involved?"

"No, but...."

"Oh, _men_!" Mrs. Coulson huffed. "If any of you actually spoke to each other about anything that wasn't work related, the world would be a far better place."

While Clint tried to figure out what Mrs. Coulson was talking about, Molly walked back into the kitchen. 

"Dad says can we make him some tea." She stared pointedly at Clint - one of those looks he'd grown accustomed to from his years working with Natasha - then at the center of the table where a ceramic bowl full of tea bags sat on a burgundy place mat. With his free hand, he rifled through them until he found a mocha nut mate and handed the packet to Molly.

The girl traded a complicated look with her grandmother, then put the kettle on to boil, placed the teabag in a purple coffee mug, and darted back out of the kitchen.

"So," Clint said, avoiding Mrs. Coulson's gaze by looking at a bow-and-arrow magnet stuck to the refrigerator, holding up a calendar from a local travel agents that featured images of Tahiti. "You're taking this all kind of well?"

Mrs. Coulson shrugged. "My son's been involved with S.H.I.E.L.D. for a long time, Clint. He's alive, he's recovering...I really can't ask for more than that."

Clint nodded, then looked down at the floor. "And me being up in your tree?" he asked.

"Yes, well...we'll have to have a talk about that later," said Mrs. Coulson, and Clint could almost _hear_ her smiling. "Truthfully, I've known for at least a week that somebody was watching the house. I assumed Nick had sent an agent, but when I asked him for confirmation, well...I don't think I'll repeat what he said."

"Not necessary, ma'am," said Clint, looking up at her.

"Oh, for heaven's sake...just call me Sara. You don't still call my son 'sir,' do you?"

"Um...sort of?"

Mrs. Coulson - Sara - shook her head. "Hopeless, the pair of you. And speaking of 'hopeless,' you do understand that Phil's actually here in this house now and that he'd like to see you? Why are you stalling like this?"

"I'm not...okay, I am, but your son's kind of...."

"Kind of what?"

"Intimidating?"

Sara Coulson...snorted (there really wasn't a more genteel word for it), then got up from the table. "Stay where you are, Clint," she ordered before walking through into the living room. 

Fewer than thirty seconds later, she returned with an old forest green photo album and set it down on the table. She opened it, and there in the center of the first page was a faded photograph of a grinning, gap-toothed little boy, no more than eight years old. He was standing in front of a Christmas tree, wearing a Santa hat and what looked like a brand new set of Captain America footie pajamas.

Clint couldn't help laughing.

"Still intimidated?"

"Okay, maybe not quite so much."

"Good," she said, then pulled Clint up from his seat. "It's time for you to talk to Phil."

***

Mrs. Coulson guided Clint through the living room and into the little hallway that led to the TV room.

A brown leather sofa and a plaid loveseat had been pushed back against the walls to make room for a queen size adjustable bed. Molly - her sneakered feet hanging off the edge of the bed - lay curled up on top of a blue wool blanket, a remote control clutched in her right hand and her left hand just barely touching the sleeve of her dad's old Army Ranger t-shirt.

Clint hung back in the doorway, unwilling to disturb Molly and unable to actually look at Coulson.

"Phil," Mrs. Coulson said quietly. "Clint's here to see you. Molly, come along and help me finish the soup. Give your dad some time to talk to his friend."

Molly slid off the bed and followed her grandma back to the kitchen, which gave Clint the chance to look at Coulson for the first time. He was pale and thin and his eyes looked tired and he clearly hadn't finished recovering, but he was alive.

He was _alive_.

"Clint?" Coulson's voice always had a slightly breathy quality, but it was barely more than a raspy whisper at the moment.

It was the best sound Clint had heard in his life. 

He took two steps into the room and tried to smile cheerfully, but Coulson's frown told Clint everything he needed to know about just how awkwardly unsuccessful he must have been.

"Come on over," Coulson said hoarsely. 

Clint hesitated, but Coulson fixed his most bland expression on his face. "It's probably safe," he said, patting the mattress. "I'm almost entirely certain I'm not a zombie, despite my recent return from the dead."

Unsurprisingly, Coulson being a smart-ass was the most reassuringly normal thing about this entirely abnormal experience. Clint walked the rest of the way across the room, and when Coulson patted the mattress one more time, Clint gave in and sat on the edge of the bed, trying hard not to jostle anything.

Except then Coulson reached out and pulled at Clint's sleeve, and Clint let himself be drawn closer just as he had done when Coulson's mom had tugged at his sleeve in the kitchen, and somehow, Clint found himself lying on the bed, curled in towards Coulson, his booted feet hanging slightly over the edge of the mattress, mirroring the position Molly had been in when Clint first entered the room.

For a moment, neither man spoke, then Clint took a deep shuddering breath and said "Sir?"

"We're in bed together, Clint," Coulson said wryly. "I think it's probably time you start calling me Phil."

Clint nodded, even though he knew it was going to take a while before calling him 'Phil' came naturally to him. "Just...do you think we could save the debrief or whatever for a little later? Like...what I was doing lurking around your mom's house."

"You know, I seem to remember inviting you here to meet my family," Coulson said. "Although I've got to admit I didn't expect your visit to be under these precise circumstances."

Clint's answering chuckle was embarrassingly watery.

"But yeah," Coulson said quietly, moving his hand just enough to bury his fingers in Clint's hair. "We can talk later tonight if you want, assuming...you are staying, aren't you?"

Clint could hardly believe how unsure Coul...Phil sounded, as if there was even the slightest possibility that Clint would give up a minute of this unbelievably miraculous gift. However, Clint just answered "I'd like that," and kept as still as possible so Phil could keep stroking his hair.

"Go-od," said Phil, unable to suppress a huge yawn. "For now, though, maybe we should both catch up on a little sleep?"

Then Phil moved closer - just close enough so that Clint felt warmed by the heat of Phil's body. 

Clint could smell Mrs. Coulson's minestrone, could hear the sound of Molly playing the cello in the living room, and using just a little bit of imagination, could taste Phil's lips on his own. 

He smiled...and let his eyes close.


End file.
